


Tyrannical Temptation

by Artemis_Dreamer



Series: The Squishy Apocalypse [19]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Autobots - Freeform, Belly Rubs, Drabble, Dysfunctional Team, Fat Robots, Fluff, Food/Feeding Kink, I'm Going to Hell, Imprisonment, M/M, Mild Angst, Mildly Dubious Consent, Not Canon Compliant, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 16:11:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10597569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis_Dreamer/pseuds/Artemis_Dreamer
Summary: "It seems that reports of your predicament were not exaggerated," the tyrant smirked, his optics blatantly roaming every inch of the medic's plump frame. Ratchet stiffened with irritation. What business was it of Megatron's that he'd gained weight?---In which Ratchet is hungry, Megatron is a pervert, and the Autobots don't give a scrap.





	

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: This is a work of fetish fiction, involving feeding, weight gain and implied belly stuffing.
> 
> Don't like, don't read.

Mistakes had been made. Others would be blamed.

Or not. 

Every mistake that Ratchet had made today had been his own slagging fault. 

Agreeing to Prime's utterly absurd plan to split the team and simultaneously cover multiple mission objectives, even while Decepticon activity remained at an all-time high. Agreeing to undertake an active field role for the first time in what felt like centuries, even though his combat skills had all but atrophied, his joints hurt like Pit, and his reaction times were downright abysmal. 

Agreeing to accompany Bumblebee and Smokescreen into the field, purportedly to exert a stabilizing influence on the young, rambunctious mechs and to prevent them from taking unnecessarily rash actions. Agreeing to guard the rear of their formation, foolishly failing to realize that the suggestion had in fact been a blatant ploy to leave him behind. 

Yes, every mistake that Ratchet had made today had been his own slagging fault. Currently shackled in the brig aboard the Decepticon warship Nemesis, the medic knew that he had nomech but himself to blame for his current predicament.

That being said, he still had every intention of disciplining the ever-loving slag out of his so-called teammates for the foolhardy stunt that they'd pulled. One old medic was no match for an entire squad of Eradicons, but one old medic and two young scouts just might have been. Yes, he was going to weld their frelling pedes to the floor.

As Ratchet continued to contemplate the scouts' punishment, his tanks abruptly growled with hunger. He had consumed a standard ration prior to the mission, but it hadn't been nearly enough fuel to sustain him - his damaged frame still hasn't recovered from the trauma of synthetic energon use, still processing and absorbing fuel far less efficiently than before.

Going hungry wouldn't deactivate him. In fact, it would likely do him some good. A considerable amount of excess weight had accumulated on his frame - a result of his tendency to overcompensate for that aforementioned inefficiency - and losing even half of it would greatly improve his mobility.

Yes, it would likely do him some good, but that didn't mean he had to enjoy it.

It was almost a relief when Megatron finally bothered to show his ugly faceplates - the gloating of a maniacal warlord was marginally preferable to the contemplation of his own discomfort.

"Megatron." The medic acknowledged with a grumble.

"Autobot." Megatron replied scornfully, not bothering to use his designation. Ratchet was certain that the tyrant had learned it by now, but why the Pit should he expect anything resembling respect from his leader's worst enemy?

"It seems that reports of your predicament were not exaggerated," the tyrant smirked, his optics blatantly roaming every inch of the medic's plump frame. Ratchet stiffened with irritation. What business was it of Megatron's that he'd gained weight?

That his frame was now soft and heavy, with a round potbelly protruding from his chassis, comfortable rolls of fat along his back plating, and an aft that could politely be described as huge? 

That his thick wrists had barely managed to fit into the stasis cuffs that currently restrained his frame, and that even half a dozen Eradicons working in tandem had had considerable difficulty hauling his motionless bulk to the brig?

That his frame was becoming softer and heavier by the orn as the medic continued to stuff his faceplates with liquorice, chocolate, and cookies, knowing all the while that his own teammates wouldn't have given a scrap even if they had actually bothered to notice?

No, it was no business of Megatron's that he'd gained weight.

As the tyrant continued his silent and quite frankly unnerving appraisal of Ratchet's frame, the medic came to an unpleasant realization - the gleam in Megatron's optics was not one of malice, but of blatant fascination. For some sick frelling reason, the silver mech liked what he saw. 

"A large frame requires large amounts of fuel." Megatron observed, his tone calculating. "On this pathetic planet, energon is painfully scarce. Clearly you've managed to find an alternative fuel source - quite possibly the same fuel source as my Second in Command." 

The tyrant's tone abruptly transitioned from thoughtful to dangerous. "Tell me, Autobot, are you hungry?"

"And why in Primus's name would I tell you a thing like that?" Ratchet snapped irately. 

Petty though the question may have been, answering it would set a dangerous precedent for the ensuing interrogation. Ratchet's tanks, however, made their answer perfectly clear, growling loudly to protest their prolonged emptiness. 

Megatron smirked with triumph. "Good," he rumbled approvingly. "The most desperate prisoners are always the most compliant."

Desperate? Countless terrifying scenarios of torture whirled through the medic's processor as Megatron unlocked the door to his cell. The silver mech entered seemingly without concern for his prisoner's actions, but then again, why should he be concerned? The stasis cuffs on Ratchet's wrists held him nigh-immobile.

Those terrifying scenarios of torture were promptly replaced by abject confusion, however, as the tyrant withdrew a small box from his subspace. Judging by the colourful label, it was a container full of organic fuel. More specifically, a box of cookies. 

"Just what the Pit are you -" Ratchet's confused outburst was abruptly cut short as the tyrant jammed a cookie into his open mouth.

"Consider this a show of mercy," Megatron grinned, showing far too many of his sharp, dangerous fangs. "Your hunger will be permanently sated."

As Ratchet instinctively began to chew the gingerbread treat that the tyrant had fed him, he couldn't help but shudder with apprehension - apprehension that rapidly became horrified understanding as the tyrant continued to remove box after identical box of fuel from his subspace. 

Slag it all to Pit. Megatron intended to feed him - to feed him far, far too much, to stuff him until his tanks quite nearly burst from strain, to make him suffer in the most pleasurable way imaginable. 

A second cookie was jammed carelessly into the old mech’s mouth, the tyrant not bothering to wait for his prisoner to swallow the first. Ratchet uttered a snarl of protest, but the vehemence of it was somewhat undermined by his subsequent exvent of pleasure.

Pit, these cookies tasted amazing. Crisp, sweet, and vaguely spicy gingerbread biscuits, each nearly as large as the palm of his servo. They were coated liberally with brown sugar, and featured the barest hint of vanilla flavouring.

Ratchet would never admit to it later, but he willingly opened his mouth in anticipation of the third cookie. Dignity be damned - he was achingly hungry, and this fuel was impossibly delicious.

Rather than feed him another treat, however, the tyrant yanked the medic roughly to his pedes, moving to immediately claim the now-vacant seat on the cell's only bench. Once seated, Megatron pulled the startled medic back down, settling the smaller yet far bulkier mech firmly atop his thighs.

Ratchet's frame went completely rigid, the old mech utterly terrified by such close physical contact with his leader's worst enemy. 

"I intend to enjoy this," the tyrant rumbled. "For that enjoyment to be mutual, I advise you to relax."

Bound and helpless, Ratchet knew that he had little choice in the matter. Tentatively, he began to relax his frame. Whatever sick game Megatron was playing, it didn't seem that his intention was to inflict bodily harm.

The tyrant pressed another cookie between the medic's lipplates, and then another, barely allowing Ratchet sufficient time to swallow. Despite the rushed pace, however, Megatron's actions were now far gentler than before - the tyrant was seemingly satisfied that force would not be required in order to compel his prisoner to comply.

As Megatron fed Ratchet yet another cookie, his free servo moved to rest on the plating of the medic's chassis. Slowly but deliberately, the tyrant began to pinch and tease at that soft plating, rubbing and fondling it in such a gentle way that he was practically caressing the old mech's frame.

Ratchet felt a rush of heat course through his frame as he flushed with pleasure. Megatron's clawed servos were incredibly dangerous and could easily shred his plating to scrap metal, but that distressing fact only made the experience all the more exhilarating. Nomech else had ever reacted this way to his increased mass. Then again, the medic mused wryly, nomech else had ever noticed.

It was frighteningly easy to become lost in a haze of seemingly endless pleasure, lost in the flavour of sweet fuel on his glossa and the sensation of careful servos on his plump chassis. Lost, that is, until a truly humiliating sound escaped his vocalizer. To his horror, Ratchet realized that he had actually moaned.

Megatron, cruel fragger that he was, did not let such an unfortunate display of weakness pass him by. "So receptive," the tyrant practically purred, a smirk evident in his voice. "Tell me, do your fellow Autobots never touch your frame?"

Ratchet grudgingly shook his helm, grumbling an expletive around his mouthful of fuel. Touch him? His teammates didn't even speak to him.

"A pity," the tyrant responded. "If only you were a Decepticon, I could give your frame the attention it deserves."

Megatron's words immediately snapped the medic back to reality. He was not supposed to be enjoying this. He would not be tempted to defect, no matter how delicious the fuel or how affectionate the touches. As Megatron brought yet another cookie to the medic's lipplates, Ratchet lashed out, attempting to bite the tyrant's servo. 

A mistake. Though, perhaps not as severe a mistake as the medic had anticipated. 

It seemed that Megatron was in the mood to be merciful - his response was merely to slap the medic across the faceplates with the back of his servo, hard enough to dent but not nearly hard enough to dislocate the old mech's jaw.

When Megatron spoke, his tone was not one of anger. Rather, it was merely a warning growl. "Behave, Autobot," the tyrant reprimanded, "or I will make this very painful for you." 

Ratchet willed himself to calm down, to refrain from further emotional outbursts. Logically speaking, it would be in his best interests not to provoke Megatron any further. After all, he still placed at least some value on his miserable old function. 

The medic obediently took the proffered cookie between his dentae, continuing to fuel as though nothing had happened. Fortunately, this response seemed to please the tyrant. 

"Better," the silver mech rumbled. "Compliant prisoners are rewarded." Situation now stabilized, Megatron continued to feed the medic, immediately pressing two more cookies into his open mouth. 

Ratchet groaned with exertion as he continued to chew. It had yet to become an issue of pain, but his tanks had already reached their maximum recommended fuel capacity. Conventionally speaking, he was completely full. Megatron, however, had seemingly no intention of stopping. If anything, the tyrant was now feeding him even more rapidly than before.

Ratchet regarded the remaining boxes of fuel with apprehensive optics, running a quick calculation in the back of his processor. Pit, his so-called teammates had better rescue him, and it had better be soon. Even if pushed to their absolute limits, his tanks could barely handle even a third of the remaining fuel.

It seemed that Megatron could sense Ratchet's distress - his servo began to move more slowly, tracing firm, broad circles across the medic's bulging chassis. Another contented moan escaped Ratchet's vocalizer. The tyrant's touch was pure bliss, soothing the ache that had begun to gnaw at his overly stuffed tanks. 

The medic could honestly swear that he had never before in his function felt so thoroughly sated and content. Pure bliss, at the servos of his leader's worst enemy - the irony was staggering. Slag it all to Pit, he wasn't supposed to be enjoying this! 

The tyrant's words replayed in his processor. "If only you were a Decepticon, I could give your frame the attention it deserves." Thoroughly annoyed, Ratchet shook his helm. He was not, and would never be a traitor. 

He was not, and would never be a traitor, but that was no reason not to enjoy every last klik of this. 

His so-called teammates had better rescue him, but it had better not be anytime soon.

**Author's Note:**

> For the anonymous ml00. Thank you so much for your patience - I'm sorry that this took so long!
> 
> I re-wrote this thing almost five times, because it was so difficult to get the tone right. Early drafts were much, MUCH too dark. I was going for a mix of angst, confusion and fluff, but I'm still not sure that I actually succeeded. 
> 
> I'm working on several more requests at the moment, and unlike this one, I should have them completed in a timely manner over the next couple of weeks. 
> 
> Any and all feedback is appreciated.


End file.
